


Force of Nature

by Little_Ghost14, Velocity Girl 1980 (Little_Ghost14)



Category: The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Civil War, F/M, Gen, Intrigue, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29700810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Little_Ghost14, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Velocity%20Girl%201980
Summary: Sucked into a vortex of intrigue, plotting and betrayal, King Arthur I finds himself pitted against his brother, Prince Henry, in a fight for the English crown. Surrounded by shadows within shadows, at the mercy of court factions, England's most reluctant King must reach deep within himself to find the strength to pull the realm back from the brink of another dynastic civil war.This is an old story, recently re-written thanks to lockdown. Thank you for taking time to read.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Arthur Tudor, Charles Brandon/Mary Tudor of France, Henry VIII of England/Original Character(s), James IV of Scotland/Margaret Tudor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:** **The King is Dead** **.**

**21st April, 1509. Richmond Palace.**

Prince Henry had never seen a man die before. They told him it was quick, a swift transition between living flesh and dead meat, as fast as a noose snapping a vertebrae. But his father, ever a man to defy convention, lingered on. Air rattled through the old man's lungs, his exhalation so weak it barely touched the haze of incense that hung heavy over the royal deathbed. The dying king's ears shut to the last rites murmured by the Archbishop, deaf forever to the prayers for the dying from his mother as she bent her old knees on the cold stone floor, rosary clicking softly in background. Henry thought to comfort her, but the spectacle of his dying father held him in its thrall as a myriad of thoughts collided in his head.

His feelings were alien to him, sensations he couldn't quite put his finger on. Grief? Grief for a man he had honoured, but never truly loved. Henry VII was a king, not a father – something the Prince had never been allowed to forget. If he had ever been so bold as to imagine the king's death, he envisioned it as a moment of liberation from the gilded cage he had been forced into and trapped in for seven long years. Picturing a future full of tournaments and pageantry, valour and war had pulled him through the darkest of days. All he wanted was to be free to chase those dreams, to be the hero of his own story.

Nervously, he stepped closer to the bed, careful to muffle his footsteps. All around him, other mourners bowed their heads, rosary beads entwined in their fingers, glinted dully in the candlelight. Henry felt self-conscious as he realised he had neglected to bring his own. Not that any words of prayer formed in his mind. Instead, he took his last look at the man who had been his father, his king and his captor. Henry VII's face was gaunt and half in shadow, cheeks sunken to dark pits and skin as wrinkled and pale as parchment. Long gone was the young and hungry exile who'd staked his life on the crown, fuelled by a sense of righteous justice. Left in his place, only this fading ghost.

From somewhere nearby, the Archbishop's voice cut through the Prince's thoughts. "The King is dead."

So, that was it. The proclamation was met with a sharp gasp from Lady Margaret Beaufort, but a quick glance around the other faces in the room and Henry could see the relief in their eyes. Like they all had better things to be doing. The Duke of Buckingham jolted like he'd been startled out of a pleasant nap, but he quickly regained his wits. "Write to Queen Margaret in Scotland, she must be informed immediately. Send messages to every city in the realm. And summon the ambassadors, the rulers of Europe must be kept informed."

To many, the haste may have seemed indecent. But Henry understood; matters of state paused for no one. Not even the death of a King. What he didn't quite understand was how Buckingham had managed to forget the most important person of all. "My brother, your grace. The Prince of Wales might also like to know of the death of our father."

"Naturally." The Duke's eyes narrowed, god alone knew what was going through his mind. He inclined his head in a show of deference and ducked out of the room.

Curious, Henry allowed his gaze to linger on the spot where the Duke had vanished. But it was Arthur who soon occupied his thoughts. Out in the Marches with his pretty Spanish wife, oblivious to his world about to be turned upside down. Poor, weak Arthur whom their father had expected to die at any moment. Simply living to claim the throne meant the new king had already exceeded expectations. Only time would tell if that is enough to steady the English ship.

Meanwhile, Henry returned to his now dead father as the others filed out of the chamber. Only Lady Margaret Beaufort remained, her knees still bent against the cold flagstones as she prayed and prayed for the soul of her only child. He had no words of consolation to take her pain away and he found himself looking at the closed door, realising he could walk through it unquestioned. At last, he was free.

* * *

**1st May, 1509. Ludlow Castle, Shropshire.**

The last thing Katherine of Aragon expected was to fall in love with this place. The long journey from Spain had been fraught with danger, the sea-crossing one long, endless storm during which a priest had read them their last rites on the increasingly likely chance they would all be sunk and drowned. Seasickness had left her so weak she had had to be carried ashore in the arms on of an old sailor, like a discarded doll washed up on the shoreline. At the end of these harrowing travails, she found herself on a dismal, windswept island in the middle of the sea which welcomed her with freezing sleet that didn't let up all the way to Dogmersfield.

Then she met her future husband. Still unwell, she had been woken in the middle of the night and dragged out of bed to be inspected like a prize heifer by the King himself, before being turned over to his son. Prince Arthur had burned red with embarrassment and scrutinised his feet the whole time before the unseemly farce was brought to an end by the timely intervention of Dona Elvira. But the wedding was nice, and by that time Arthur had gathered enough courage to speak to her in near whole sentences.

Upon arrival, she thought she might never see the sun again. Yet here she was, strolling the battlements of Ludlow Castle, relishing the feel of the early spring sunshine on her face as she surveyed her husband's lands. Down the steep hill, to the pretty stone arched bridge that crossed the winding river Teme to the little market town beyond. It occupied a place in her heart that had grown into a profound affection in the eight years since she had arrived.

Throughout all that time, Maria de Salinas had been at her side, day in and day out, come what may. This day was no different.

"I was just thinking of the past," Katherine said to her.

"If the news I hear from London is true, you would be best served fixing your mind on the future."

"You mean the King? He has been at death's door for three years and more. I think he shall outlive us all. Allow me this one concession to nostalgia, Maria." They came to a halt at the crenellations overlooking the forecourt and down the long, gravelled driveway. A fountain gurgled below, its water shining like crystal in the rays of the rising sun. "You remember how ill we were when we got here. Arthur and I. They feared we both might die."

Maria rolled her dark brown eyes. "When you said you were reminiscing, I thought it might be something nice. Dancing in the Alhambra, wading the seas of southern Spain. Alas, it is the time you and your newly wedded husband almost died."

Katherine laughed, quickly composing herself again. "What if Elvira and Diego were right, what if it did something? What if that is why I cannot get with child?"

"They lied to you, Katherine; they sold your secrets," Maria replied, firmly. She drew herself to full height, looking her in the eye. "I cannot explain what happened to Dona Elvira, why she betrayed you the way she did. I will certainly not excuse her. As for him, I will not speak his name again. But you are strong and healthy, you bleed every month so regular that even I know when it is due."

"You misunderstand me, Maria," said Katherine, eyes lowered, her tone flat. "They never said it was I who had the problem. Arthur. What if the illness affected his … you know? His seed."

Maria's eyes widened in shock. "Be careful who you say that to. King Henry has locked men up in the Tower for less." She spoke in jest, but it was only funny because it was true. At length, Maria continued: "Small wonder Prince Arthur supported his father in sending Dona Elvira and Fray Diego away."

They lapsed into a companionable silence soon broken by the sound of horse's hooves coming from below. Two chestnut palfreys, saddled up already, being led to the fountain for a drink. As Katherine watched them, she thought back on the scandal that had hit her own household before she even saw it coming. Her own Duenna secretly working with the Castilians to undermine her father; her confessor putting it into her head that Arthur was infertile and too weak to ever be king, angering the actual King in the process. Then he sold her secrets while bedding every wench that had the misfortune to cross his path. That pretty little market town was now richly sown with Fray Diego's bastard offspring. She had defended him, made excuses for him and fought with Arthur driving such a wedge between them that conceiving a child would have been impossible anyway since they were living at opposite ends of the castle.

Arthur's voice intruded upon her thoughts. Distant but clear as he called a greeting to the stable hands. He soon came into view, dressed in dark colours that made his golden curls stand out all the more starkly. As he set his foot in the stirrup, he looked up and met her gaze, holding it for a moment before bowing to her. Katherine returned the courtesy by bobbing a curtsey. It was all very chivalrous, but the distance remained.

"Are you still angry with him?" asked Maria.

"I was never angry with him," Katherine confessed, watching as Arthur rode toward the portcullis. His sister, Princess Mary, had joined him, riding alongside. "I was angry with me. For being duped. For believing their lies. For letting false friends come between me and my English family. Even now, they have me doubting him and I am angry at myself for doing that, yet taking it out on him which only makes it worse."

She swiped at the tears threatening to fall, but nothing got past Maria. The other woman wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Listen well, Catalina, the only people who deserve your anger are Diego and Elvira. She was like a mother to you; he swore before god to guide and protect you. They broke their promise and you are not to blame. Waste no more tears on them."

As loathe as she was to admit it, the tears felt good. A last release of emotion before her head cleared and she could think straight again. Maria spoke true, but Katherine was still kicking herself for being so blind to the faults of people she held dear. She drew a deep, cleansing breath and straightened her back, standing as tall as she could. "What if the damage has already been done?"

"You won't know until you talk to Arthur. Do it as soon as he returns."

Still Katherine hesitated. Princess Mary was with him, so it was only a pleasure trip they had gone on. They would be back before noon. She backed away from the crenellations, tracing her route back to the castle. Her mind was made up.

* * *

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Princess Mary was pouring forth several weeks worth of pent up frustration and irritation. "You don't understand what it's like, Arthur. I spend all day with the Princess who cries and laments that she's ruined everything and you'll never speak to her again. Then when I'm with you, you're crying and lamenting that you have ruined everything and Katherine will never speak to you again. From what I can see, neither of you have ruined anything and the solution to both your woes is to stop being silly for long enough to just talk to each other. How hard can that possibly be?"

Her agitation spread to her horse, causing him to skitter and toss his head. Arthur grew concerned, but the creature soon settled when Mary paused for breath. He thought she might have more to add and was relieved when she just slowly shook her head, tutted disapprovingly and turned to face the path ahead. They were ambling along at a leisurely pace, taking in the rolling landscape of Shropshire when the subject of his recent quarrel with Katherine inevitably arose.

"All I'm saying is that I regret the way I went about the matter," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt her; I never meant to cause Katherine distress and it pains me to know that I did. I tried and tried to make her see what those people were doing, she kept defending them and all the while they were leaking information back to father. And you know what our father has become, don't you?"

Although she kept her attention on the path ahead, he could see her expression darkening. The court at London had become a human bear pit, ruled by fear and suspicion. Men were being rounded up and thrown in the Tower for the slightest thing, while tax collectors bullied and harassed innocent subjects into giving up their last battered pennies just to avoid the debtor's prison. Arthur was just glad he and Katherine had successfully gotten Mary out of there, bringing her to Ludlow after their mother died so he and the Princess could look after her themselves. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to do the same for Prince Henry.

"Thomas More's father, Sir John, is now in the Tower," Arthur continued. "And our Uncle, William Courtenay. A man who joined our father when he was a penniless exile in Brittany and fought alongside him at Bosworth. Rotting in the Tower of London."

"I heard about William, so I wrote to Aunt Catherine and cousin Harry," said Mary, quietly now as her mood sobered. "I didn't say anything direct and certainly not against our father, but I made it known I was praying for them. You will make it right when you are King, won't you?"

Arthur sagged, the despondency over his argument with Katherine and the prospect of what lay ahead in all other matters weighed him down more than ever. "How can I make it right? I can release all those men wrongfully arrested, but I cannot stitch heads back onto bodies. I cannot wash away the fear and trauma the Tower inflicts upon its residents. I look at what Kingship has done to our father, and it scares me, Mary. I look at him now, and see myself in twenty years time."

"You won't end up like him. Arthur, you're a good man with a good heart."

"He was a good man, too. He risked everything to return to this country and take the crown, ending the wars once and for all, uniting two houses who'd been tearing each other apart. He was a liberator, a reformer, an idealist. But the crown consumed him. When I think what it's done to him, it makes me wish we could all stay here at Ludlow and live our lives in peace. Just you, me, Katherine and our friends."

He could wish all he liked, he knew it was never going to happen. All he could do was make the most of mornings like this, when he, his sister and, once the air was cleared, his wife could all go riding together. They could be a family and just be normal. But even now, the real world looked like it was going to intrude upon their little pocket of harmony. He could see a party of black clad riders, one in front bearing the royal standard, galloping towards the castle.

Arthur and Mary continued skirting the outside of the castle walls, refusing to rush the last few yards of their journey for the sake of the privy council. A decision solidified when he spotted Katherine waiting by a postern gate. His heart skipped a beat at the unexpected sight of her. Her auburn hair was loose about her shoulders, her gown a simple white satin embroidered with silver threads that caught the light.

"Mary, ride on ahead and tell those men to await me in the hall."

Before carrying out her instruction, Mary fixed him with a pointed look. Almost threatening. He acknowledged it with a beatific smile. Once alone with Katherine, however, he pulled himself together and extended a hand to her, pulling her up into the saddle with him. "We need to talk," he said, as soon as she was safely in place in front of him. He circled his arms around her waist so he could hold of the horse's reins.

Katherine twisted in the saddle to face him, her large blue eyes meeting his. The whites were pink and puffy, like she had been crying. He sent up a silent prayer that he had not been the cause of her distress, but he knew he probably had been.

"I am sorry, Arthur," she said, plaintively.

"No, I am sorry. It was I who was in the wrong."

"No, I was wrong, I should have listened to you."

"And I should have been more patient, I acted rashly and I promise never to do so again."

Before Katherine could reply, Arthur kissed her. Relying on the horse's sense of direction, he released the reins and brought one free hand to her chin, caressing her face as the kiss lingered. Only the sound of someone clearing their throat parted them. Startled, Arthur only suppressed the curse on his lips when he saw that it was Mary. Pale and worried, she chewed her lower lip as she looked up at them.

"Arthur, please, you must come. Quickly."

"Oh, shit," he murmured, earning a light smack on the leg from Katherine. "I'm sorry, my love, dine with me this evening and we will talk properly then."

"It's all right," she assured him. "All will be well."

Mary had run on ahead, leaving Arthur and Katherine to follow on. He nudged the horse, urging it on a little faster as he inwardly cursed the councillors who had timed their arrival so thoroughly inconveniently. They crossed the drawbridge back into the castle forecourt and found them all, grim faced and kneeling in the gravel. Only one remained standing, with even Mary now down on her knees, her head bent low so all he could see was her auburn hair, hanging a loose braid over her shoulder. Confused, bewildered, not quite certain of what he was seeing, he wished they would all get up.

When Katherine tried to slide down from the saddle, he tightened his grip on her to keep her in place. He needed her, he realised. He needed her for what he was about to hear. Attuned to him, she covered his hand with her own as the last man standing, the Lord High Marshall, spoke aloud.

"The King is dead. Long live the King."

So, Arthur thought to himself, this is it.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.**


	2. Lancaster and York

**Chapter Two:** **Lancaster and York**

Church bells tolled the death of the King in a droll monotonous clangour. From St Paul's to St Stephens, out over Westminster and across the Southbank of the Thames. Town Criers across the land bellowed the tidings to every man, woman and child in the realm. Town, city and hamlet alike would know the news. Yet, Henry knew, few who truly knew the late king would mourn his passing. The corrupt tax collectors would bemoan the loss of their lucrative side-dealings, while the Plantagenet by-blows would convene in secret cellars and weigh up the odds of their chances now their nemesis was stiff on a slab in Westminster Abbey. Only poor, sickly Arthur stood in their way of the crown now – a far cry from the granite eyed exile who'd cast their dynasty into the dust.

Even Arthur was still miles from London, powerless to affect anything happening at court. So, Henry took the helm as best he could. Acting as care-taker in his brother's absence, he signed away what he could and did his best to keep the peace between squabbling nobles. Then, at the end of the day, he returned to same room his father had forced him to live in all those years ago. Like a captive animal who didn't know it had been set free, he shunned the opulence of Richmond and returned to the safety of the only cage he had ever known. But at least he could have visitors these days.

Tonight, it was the turn of the Duke of Buckingham. They sat facing each other across a small cards table that Henry had liberated from his father's room, holding their hands close to their chests. Every so often, they glanced down and studied the deck. Not much doing for Henry, with his two Kings and lone Jester. Not that it mattered, he'd already lost all his loose coins and forgotten what game they were meant to be playing now. The topic of conversation had long since moved to their new King.

"Arthur is in poor health, if your father was to be believed," said the Duke. "And still no heir."

"I had noticed," Henry replied.

"My thinking is your tenure as regent might be valuable experience in more ways than one."

"To call me 'regent' is really quite over-stating the matter, Edward. I'm just taking care of things until Arthur arrives."

"Over-stating? You ordered the release of prisoners from the Tower and dismissed some of your father's most trusted advisors. Arthur might take that the wrong way."

"I ordered the release of our wrongly imprisoned Uncle and the elderly father of one of our friends. And those councillors? You know what they did, Edward. They brought financial tyranny to this realm's poorest subjects. They'll be lucky if Arthur doesn't take their heads for it."

Edward smiled, clearly pleased with Henry's answers. Despite himself, it brought a flush of pride to his face. If it impressed England's most powerful Duke, then Arthur too would realise what he was capable of.

"Would your brother have had the backbone to take such action? From all I've seen of him, he's your father writ small but entirely lacking the late king's martial prowess."

"Nature did not see fit to gift my brother with such martial skill, your grace. It will be down to me to lead his armies into battle, should the need arise." Henry looked up, meeting the Duke's gaze. Had his father heard such talk, Stafford would be already half-way through Traitor's Gate. He, however, was more than content to let the conversation roll freely. It was only talk, after all. "As for any heirs, or rather a lack of them, that is in God's hands."

"God and your brother's. I hear his weak health has left him incapable. It will be the Queen who props him up, mark my words."

"Who told you that?"

"A man who was in the Queen's own household," Stafford replied. "The fact is, your grace, you are spoken of as a King in waiting-"

"By whom?" Henry cut in. He hid his surge of pride beneath a veneer of coyness: "My father is barely cold and already there are plots stirring against my brother before he's even reached the city gates."

"Plotters won't do him the courtesy of waiting. And are you seriously telling me you don't want to be King one day? When all that stands between you and the greatest prize of all, is one weak and sickly heartbeat."

Henry simmered down; for the Duke only spoke truth. Arthur had survived thus far because their father kept him wrapped up woollen binding cloth over at Ludlow Castle, never allowing him to do anything more strenuous than pick up a pen. He couldn't help it if his mind overtook the Duke on the dark path he was being led down; without an heir in the offing, anything was possible. Giving up all pretence of the game, Henry closed his hand over his cards and sat upright in his seat. The candles guttered, causing the shadows to dance across the back wall of the room, the light sliding across the hunting scene, from the hunter's arrow to the buck felled and bleeding on the forest floor.

Rather than answer the Duke's last question, Henry opted for gentle teasing. "Should you not be with the Poles and whoever's left of the de la Poles and the Nevilles, huddled in a cellar and planning to stick a knife in my heart once you're done with my brother?"

"You know what happened to my father," Buckingham replied, firm and unwavering now. "Richard the Usurper would have had my head on a spike too had your grandmother not smuggled me out of Thornbury and brought me to the safety of the Stanley estate."

"Dressed in girl's clothing, or so I hear."

The all powerful Duke frowned at the Prince's crooked smile, apparently angry as if Henry had been the one talking loose. "You can jest, your grace. Lady Margaret did what had to be done. Lancaster died in the dirt at the Battle of Tewkesbury; York destroyed itself by itself. In their place now stands the Tudors and I will forever be in the debt of your great house. But it is new, it is vulnerable. Defending your family from pretenders and upstarts cost the old King his health and his mind, but he knew it was worth it. Now all his achievements, all his wealth and stability and the very respect of the fractious people you rule rests in the hands of a sickly boy who cannot keep it up long enough to get his wife with child. Arthur is weak, you are strong-"

"Enough!" The command was out of Henry's mouth before he could think to stop it. Nor could he recall rising, but he was on his feet looking down at the other man, wondering what had come over him. The rush of authority, his boldness in standing up for himself made him dizzy. He was a match for any man, now that he was set free. "For good or ill, Arthur is King. I, as Duke of York, will be Lord President of the Council of the North – that is my jurisdiction."

Even as he spoke those words aloud, Henry's imagination went the other way. Just a fleeting glimpse of himself in Arthur's place. Orb and sceptre in hand, a Queen that looked suspiciously like Princess Katherine at his side. He remembered her as the girl he danced with the night she married his brother. A brother too weak to dance with his own bride on his own wedding night. Henry had thought nothing of it, at the time. He had been too entranced by the beautiful Spanish Princess to look twice at Arthur. But looking back from a distance of almost eight years, it struck him as pathetic.

Later that night, as sleep eluded him, Henry recalled what the Duke had said. He was a King in waiting. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Arthur sneezed, inducing in him yet another coughing fit. Spring had come, but the chill in the damp rural air still reached his bones and left him with a stinking cold. Katherine was glancing sidelong at him, wary of whatever he had passing to her and leaving them both shivering in their furs as they trundled along the potholed roads to London. The carriage was closed, so at least his subjects would be spared the sight of their new king wiping his runny nose and struggling to keep his sagging eyelids open.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to get Katherine in his sight.

"It's not your fault you're ill," she replied, sympathetically.

"No, I mean, I'm sorry I have given you no children. All of this would have been so much easier if we had a child."

"Now you are King and the physicians are not terrified of your father, we will get them to take a proper look at you," she said. "No, they can examine both of us. I haven't given up hope, Arthur, and nor should you."

"I feel like I failed you."

"Foolish talk, husband," she chided him, but ever so gently. "After our coronation, we will visit the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. I'm sure god and the doctors can come up with something."

While they talked, the carriage slowed and eased the constant rocking over bumper roads. That alone lifted some of the sour mood from Arthur, grateful they were reaching another rest stop. Relief, it seemed, she shared with Katherine. "Look, we are here."

She flung open the carriage door to reveal Stony Stratford. A bustling market town north of London, filled with neat rows of pretty whitewashed houses. The main street even had stone pavings lining the walkways to and from the markets. The air smelled of baking bread and roasting meats, sold from open topped stalls and stalked by keen-eyed cats and dogs sniffing out the offal and titbits unfit for human consumption. Once, a long time ago, he remembered his mother talking about this place and he had imagined it as living up to its name. Stony and bleak. But it was nothing of the sort.

"My Uncle was seized in this town," he said, accepting a squires help with climbing out of the carriage.

Katherine was already out, waiting for him on the cobbles. Her smile faded. "Your mother's brother, King Edward V."

"Yes. He was only twelve."

"Seized and imprisoned by your great-uncle, Richard the Usurper," Katherine continued, as if reciting an English history lesson to her old tutors back in Spain. They had drummed this stuff into her from the moment of their betrothal. "Sometimes, I do wonder what sort of a family I married into."

She was only jesting and Arthur managed a wan smile in return. All the while, he wondered how that child king had felt, just over twenty-five years ago, when he too stepped out on these same cobbles. Had he known what was in store? Or was he still full of youthful optimism and plans for the future? Or, like Arthur himself, was he hiding his fear of the future behind a sense of duty. The truth of what befell that child lay hidden and buried in an unmarked grave. A grim reminder to Arthur of the cost of failure.

On this day, however, the town was peaceful and excitable as the people became aware of the royal visitors. He watched as Katherine strode fearlessly toward the gathering onlookers, making easy conversation with complete strangers as if she had known them all her life. He could hear her high, accented voice asking after husbands, babies and businesses; as if their future was tied in with hers. To her, it looked as natural as breathing.

* * *

Restless and sleepless, Katherine rolled over in bed and heaved a sigh. Her eyes became fixed on the narrow beams of moonlight slanting through the window shutters while her mind wandered aimlessly. To England's troubled past and about-turning to the future she and Arthur had the opportunity to build. It could be glorious, if they really put their mind to it. As she lay there, she remembered her childhood and the lessons she had received from Alessandro Geraldini, the sound of his low voice as he paced the room, lecturing her on England, the customs of England, England's history, England's law, England's queens, of whose ranks she would some day join. He taught her, also, about England's kings.

From what she recalled, none of England's kings came to the throne wanting to leave it in a worse state than they found it. Yet, many did. The pitfalls they faced were manifold. From greed, to corruption, tyranny and vice. Wanton cruelty spelled the end for William Rufus, lust did for Edward IV and insanity had been the downfall of Henry VI. All manner of ignominious ends awaited the unwary king and Katherine had been sternly lectured on them all. But there was one flaw in a man's character that Geraldini had failed to mention; one that no one had told her about: a complete absence of any self-belief.

So many kings believed themselves to be gods, but what to do when a king believed himself to be all too human. That was Arthur's fatal flaw, the one thing stopping him from achieving the greatness of his ancestors. The very thing that made him so wonderfully attractive to her – his humbleness, his absolute absence of arrogance – were the same things holding him back. Then she remembered dancing with Prince Henry on her wedding night.

She turned over to face him beside her in the bed, finding him with his back to her. His skin was soft and pale in the poor light. He was warm to the touch as she let one hand caress his bare shoulder. When he still did not wake, she brushed the hair back from his brow and kissed his forehead, catching the scent of his Castilian soap as she did so – sandalwood and jasmine. Finally, he snuffled and stirred, rolling onto his back as his eyelids fluttered open.

"Kate?" he said, voice drugged with sleep.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she said. She reasoned white lies weren't real lies. "But now you are awake, I think we should talk."

Arthur yawned and nodded. "As you wish."

"I was angry when you confronted me over Dona Elvira and Fray Diego, worse when you sent them away. It caused a rift between us. Yet, you only did what you did because you knew the truth and I see that now."

Arthur's brow creased, his expression downcast. "Katherine, please, you know I never meant to hurt you-"

"You didn't, in the long run. But now it's my turn."

Arthur drew a sharp breath, squinting back at her as if he had misunderstood something. "I suppose that's only fair."

"Your father lied to you. He lied to you for all your life."

"What?"

"You're not weak, you're not sickly, you don't need to spend the rest of your life shut away in a closet with ledgers and accounting books. You can do all the things other kings did and more. I've only seen you truly ill once, Arthur."

"When we both almost died."

"Once," she reiterated. "Once, in eight years."

Arthur looked askance. "I have a cold!"

"Everyone catches colds, Arthur, you'll shake it off by morning." All his life he had been treated like he was made of glass, but Katherine knew this was not the English way. Their Princes were soldiers and generals, just as much as the Spanish ones. "Why didn't you dance with me on our wedding night?"

"I-" Arthur cut himself off, the same look on his face he always had when he realised he was about to prove someone else's point. "Father forbid me. He said the wedding was too strenuous on me and I had to sit out the celebrations."

Katherine had no desire to say 'I told you so', but she couldn't deny the vindication she felt. For Arthur's sake, she remained understanding. "Your dynasty is new and fragile. Your father had to protect you, but he took it too far. From now on, you need to stop believing what he told you. Do that, and the Tudor rose will yet flourish."

The Tudors. An aristocratic line established barely three generations ago, when a handsome Welsh Master of Wardrobe captured the heart of a widowed French Queen, who then defied his professional duties to concentrate on undressing her. Now they ruled England, with their lovelorn hearts and over-reaching ambition. Katherine could only admire them. But she also remembered how Owen Tudor's story ended: his severed head spiked above the Micklegate Bar, where the local lunatic combed his blood matted hair daily. Those were the early days of the dynastic wars that had torn England apart, destroyed two royal lines and made way for the Tudors. A series of catastrophes that led to this moment, with Owen Tudors great-grandson sat up in bed, looking back at her with a startled look in his eye.

"What if I can't?" he asked.

"We will find a way."

Katherine couldn't guess at what the future held, but it felt like an oncoming tidal wave of uncertainty. There was only one way to steady the ship and that was an heir. Under normal circumstances, a son. But at this point, after seven fallow years, any child would do just to prove they were capable. That would silence the gossipers and put to death any doubts. Doubts she couldn't deny she had paid into herself and now she needed answers.

"Kiss me, Arthur," she said, already leaning into him. With one hand she cupped his face, drawing him closer, the other crept beneath the bedsheets and trailed up his bare thigh. England's new King was a man like any other, and he soon responded to her touch.

* * *

Katherine had lied; the cold still lingered the next day. But Arthur was unconcerned. The events of the night before were fresh in his mind as their retinue set off at dawn, the urgency of their lovemaking still warming his flesh, as they made good speed to St. Alban's. This close to the capital, the roads were better maintained and the scouts rode ahead to clear the way of carts and cattle-herders. They did not tarry at St Alban's other than to leave the carriage and mount horses to prepare for the ride through the city gates. Fine creatures, Arthur had been supplied with a destrier caparisoned in cloth of gold – a gift from Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. But it was the Lord Mayor of London who had come bearing an item Arthur had barely had time to consider. The crown. An open circlet of plain gold that lacked the neck-breaking weight of the Crown Imperial, but was enough to let the world know that the wearer was the king. It's smaller twin was presented to Katherine as they both made ready for the final leg of the journey.

From atop her white charger, Katherine reached for Arthur's hand. "It's going to be all right."

"You look beautiful." He didn't tell her that enough, considering the truth of it. They had changed from practical travelling clothes to something finer for their entrance into the city. And she looked every inch the queen in ermine trimmed velvets and satins. Her auburn hair was wrapped in a jewelled net and he could see the chipped diamonds catching the sunlight beneath her open crown. He felt like he was being eaten by his own ermine cloak. But it made it all feel real, at least. They really were King and Queen, riding out to claim their rightful place in the realm and in history.

As they drew closer, when the steeples and dome of St Paul's became visible through the early evening haze, the crowds lining the route grew thicker. Katherine beamed at them, bringing cheers and cries of 'long live the King, long live the Queen.' Arthur watched what she was doing and found himself mimicking her, smiling at his people and looking them right in the eye as they passed. Slowly, his nerves ebbed away leaving a fledgling optimism in their place. He drew in a deep breath and felt it grow.

By evening, they reached the gates of the city. There, the nobility of the realm had assembled in their ranks. But a young man with golden hair and a ceremonial sword sheathed at his hip, mounted on a chestnut charger stood apart from them. Arthur greeted him with a smile, sliding down from his own mount as he did so.

"Henry," he said, approaching his little brother.

They met half way, pulling each other into a tight embrace that neither seemed willing to break for a long time. Eventually, Arthur stepped back and looked at his brother properly. "You're a man now. How have you been?"

Henry looked relieved, his smile faltering but a laugh in his voice as he replied: "I am well now that you are safely home." He paused, his eye tracking Arthur's travelling party. "And my beautiful sister-in-law, and our baby sister with you."

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, still holding Henry close. "They are both dying to be in your company again, Harry. As am I … our father… well, we shall speak privately. You understand?"

Henry nodded, causing a stray golden curl to dislodge from behind his right ear. Arthur always thought he should be jealous of the beautiful little bastard, but he could never quite bring himself to be.

"Our father is dead, Arthur. We are both free of him now. Come, mount up again, your people await."

Arthur, Henry, Katherine and Mary formed a line that spanned the narrow road and together they rode through the gates of London, to be met with a roar from the assembled crowds. The streets were lined with the Tudor colours, the red and white rose hung from every building and green and white bunting laced every street and alleyway. Free wine flowed from street conduits, resulting in more affection for the arriving royals.

For a moment, Arthur was stunned by the reception. But that fledgling confidence soon rose to the surface, asserting its presence as he cast his eye over the sea of faces in every direction. He nudged his horse's flanks, urging them onwards through the sand covered roads of the city. His city. Arthur turned southward, downriver to where Richmond Palace lay shrouded in dusk. He knew he was home.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.**


	3. Warning from History

Arthur had been at Ludlow when the Palace of Sheen burned to the ground in 1497. Eyewitness accounts reached them of how his father was moments from being killed as blazing roof beams collapsed almost on top of him; his siblings had had to be carried to safety in the arms of their fleeing nursemaids and his mother had watched on in helpless devastation as her favourite palace, her childhood home, was gutted and destroyed in a matter of hours. What Henry VII lacked as a father, he more than compensated for as a husband. Hence, before the ashes of Sheen had cooled, the plans for Richmond Palace had been drawn up and the finest stone masons and master builders were flocking into London from all over Europe.

Arthur marvelled at the stone and mortar phoenix that had risen from the ashes. The windows were full length and wide, allowing daylight to flood into the long galleries. The high, hammer beam roofs of Sheen had been replaced, exactly as they were. Each stone wall was covered in rich tapestries from France and the Low Countries. In other parts of the palace, rooms were decorated with fine art and sculptures gifted to his father by the Italian bankers with whom he had done so much business. Best of all, hot and cold water was piped directly into the royal apartments, much to Katherine's delight.

Everything about the palace seemed new and fresh.

"How do you find your new home, your grace?"

He turned around to find Bishop Richard Fox approaching from the opposite end of the gallery. He was an elderly man, prompting Arthur to immediately steer him over to a seat in the one of the bay windows, overlooking some beautiful walled gardens. "I find it very pleasing, your excellency. But would it be very unchristian of me to confess I prefer Windsor Castle?"

The Bishop laughed, but the smile soon faded. "I hoped to find you alone, your grace, for I wished to speak with you before I depart."

"You can have a private audience with me any time you wish, surely you know that? And I will come to you, if you find you cannot travel."

"That's very kind of you, my king, and I am ever at your service so long as there's breath in my lungs. Alas, there will not be breath in my lungs for much longer, which only adds to the urgency to my finding you now."

Arthur's brow creased, but he would not condescend the man by gainsaying him. "You can tell me anything."

"As you know, I served your grandfather, King Edward IV. I was sworn to serve your uncle, Edward V, but never got the chance to make good my oaths. I even served your great-uncle, the Usurper, but he saw fit to banish me to Paris where I took a wrong turn and accidentally found myself with your father in Brittany." Fox paused, smiling wryly at his little jest. "You understand why I am reminding you of this: I saw those kings rise, I saw those kings fall. I lived through the wars and infighting and ruined my health in trying to keep the peace between them and their enemies. And do you know who their greatest enemies were?"

"Rival claimants?"

"Their families," the Bishop corrected Arthur unflinchingly. "Your greatest rival claimant isn't some distant Yorkist by-blow, it's your brother."

"Henry wouldn't.." Arthur's voice trailed off into silence. He was about to add 'he's my brother', then realised how badly it missed the point.

"I always thought your father had a great advantage as King through the simple act of not having any brothers," Bishop Fox continued. "Both of your grandfather's brothers betrayed him, it's just that one had the courtesy to wait until he was dead before acting upon his traitorous instincts."

"Are you advising me to treat Prince Henry as a threat?"

"Not at all. I am advising you only to heed History's warning and to look out for Prince Henry. Watch whose company he keeps, see to it he is not idle in your service and ensure he is well advised from wiser heads than his courtier friends. He is vulnerable to exploitation and it is your responsibility to prevent that as much as it is his."

It wasn't the first time Arthur had been asked to nanny his brother, but the outcome of this occasion seemed altogether more important. "And which living saint do you recommend to help keep Henry on the straight and narrow?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. A young Priest I have had in my service for some time. He is urbane and fiercely clever – able to get on with younger folks. Thomas Wolsey, a man of humble origin like myself and I am happy to write letters of recommendation for him."

Arthur nodded his assent. "I look forward to meeting him. But understand, I have no desire to put a spy in Henry's household – those days are over. All he needs is a steadying hand."

"And that is what Wolsey shall be, your grace. Not everything is on your shoulders."

Arthur sighed heavily, letting his gaze wander out into the private gardens. Catherine was out there, Mary and Maria in tow as they took in their new surroundings. And so too was Henry, throwing a bone to a dog. The sight of him made Arthur's spirits sag even further. "He released prisoners and dismissed my father's councillors while I was still in Ludlow. He had no authority to do that."

"I heard," the Bishop replied. "I had prepared proceedings against councillors Empson and Dudley for the many crimes they committed while in the service of your father. So while the Prince meant well, it does mean they are out of our reach."

"They cannot have gone far, your excellency. I'll have them rooted out and returned to London to face trial. And I will speak to Henry privately. He will not over-reach himself again." He had been nervous about kingship, but now the crown was on his head he knew he had to step up. There was nowhere to hide as monarch, so there was no point in trying. "Is there anyone else you think I should be worried about?"

The old bishop looked downcast. "Everyone. Every man and woman in this court wants something, is motivated by hidden ambitions, to gain whatever they can. Thomas More is a good man, whom I can vouch for. Keep him with you and take his counsel. As for who to watch out for… the Howard family remain as ambitious as ever. The current earl, Thomas Howard, remains desperate to reclaim the dukedom of Norfolk. His father lost it after supporting the usurper. Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, is not a man to be meddled with but everything he has he owes to your family. Don't take him for granted though. The Percys of Northumberland remain steadfast despite unfortunate early alliances, but guard our northern borders well. Keep them happy and they will serve you well."

Arthur listened attentively, before asking: "And what of the Courtenays? After Prince Harry, the next in line to the throne is Henry Courtenay. A boy right now, but still a grandson of Edward IV. Exactly why did my father arrest his father?"

"The Courtenays are a good family, your aunt Catherine a godly lady and Henry's a fine young man…"

Arthur sensed the 'but' coming.

"But still rival claimants. However, rival claimants that have shown no ambitions toward your crown at all. As for your father… King Henry was a good man. But he was never secure on his throne. He dealt with rebellions, uprisings, even Pretenders masquerading as that poor murdered prince, Richard Duke of York. It is small wonder he grew suspicious of everyone, and that the suspicions eventually consumed him. Heed my warnings, Arthur, but don't let what happened to your father happen to you."

Right there, in that moment, Arthur felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. An impossible task, but one he managed to raise the ghost of a smile at. "That's easier said than done."

The Bishop seemed more optimistic. "Trust your instincts, Arthur, and you will be a fine King. Be cautious, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Love and have faith in your wife. All will be well."

* * *

Fabrics of every kind were displayed on mannequins lined up battle formation. Silks, satins and taffetas of every colour and style. Some sarcanet for lining, ermine fur trims and seed pearls for decorations. Fine samite and cloth of gold and silver, alongside linens for kirtles and underskirts. Katherine walked slowly among the display, eyeing the wears appreciatively. Occasionally, she paused and ran the tips of her fingers along the weave of a certain fabric, gaging its quality and smoothness. Most of them felt like liquid to the touch.

From these raw materials, the most splendid coronation gown would be cut and stitched and adorned with jewels. Then there was another for the procession and another for the banquets and the blessing. It made Katherine dizzy to think of all the costume changes she would be going through on the day. Luckily, Princess Mary was with her to keep her from fainting and providing a timely reminder that they could make it as practical as possible.

"Remember, for the actual anointing, you will be dressed in just a simple white linen shift. Nothing fancy, no ornamentation because that is the moment God elevates you to the station of Queen."

"The shift will be worn under my coronation gown? Or will I be changing in front of the Archbishop?"

"Under, of course. Maria and I will be there to robe and disrobe you. And there will be a screen too, so the anointing can be done in private. It will just be you, Arthur, the Archbishop and God who witness the most important moment."

Katherine had dreamed of her coronation in the same way other Princesses dreamed of their weddings. But now it was here, she found herself wishing it was over. The whole event would last for five days, including street processions and banquets, tournaments and masquerade dances. Arthur just about survived their wedding and she dreaded to think of the toll the coronation would take on him. Nevertheless, it had to be done and she would carry him through it, if need be.

"And what bout the jewels, Mary?" Katherine gestured to a table bedecked with all manner of precious stones. "Pick some out for your own grown and Maria's."

Whatever reply Mary had was cut off by the sound of raised voices coming from the outer-chamber. Katherine couldn't pick out what was being said, the sound too distant and muffled. But she looked to Mary, whose expression mirrored her own concern. They both set down the fabrics they'd been holding and padded softly toward the door.

Katherine met Mary's gaze as they both leaned in to better hear the argument.

"These matters were not going to wait for you to finish trekking across the country; something had to be done!"

"That's Henry," Mary mouthed to Katherine. "He can't talk to Arthur like that."

But it seemed Arthur was having none of it as he snapped back: "All I'm asking is that you stay out of matters of state from now on. You had no authority from the Privy Council to do as you did. Now I'll hear no more of it."

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps sent both Katherine and Mary reeling back from door, just as Arthur barged his way through it. "Can you believe the liberties he takes?"

He did not stop as he strode through the privy chamber, only slowing down after he almost tripped over a length of satin. With a curse, he pushed his way through to his own room adjacent to Katherine's. But she followed him quickly, gesturing to Mary to stay back and occupy herself.

"I heard you arguing. What happened?"

She closed the double doors behind her, allowing them some modicum of privacy. But the guards still paced the outer-chamber and they couldn't pretend they didn't have ears. Mercifully, Arthur soon cooled down. Massaging his temples as he drew deep breaths, probably inwardly counting to ten. When he turned back toward Katherine, he was quite composed again and recounted his meeting with Bishop Fox. "Henry took it into his head that I was going to simply hand over the North to him to rule, without doing anything to earn such an honour besides sign some papers in my absence. Is it too much to ask that he now returns to his tutors and gets on with his studies?"

Katherine suspected there was rather more to it than that, but she didn't press him on the matter. Instead, she closed the space between them and rubbed the tension from his shoulders. "Henry needs to be settled, Arthur. He's no longer a child-"

"And not yet a man," Arthur cut in.

"He's older than you were when we married." She could feel him relaxing into her touch, a sure sign he was truly coming back down to earth. When he kissed her, she took it as another good sign and continued her line of thought: "As things stand, he is next in line. He's one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe. Only ruling monarchs and the next in lines are above him. It amazes me that your father made no match for him."

"He was negotiating with your father about one of your cousins. I found the letters. Right now, I am tempted to tell King Ferdinand that Henry's perfectly at liberty to relocate to her if she doesn't fancy coming to England." Arthur paused, a wry smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "As if any girl fancies the challenge of taming Henry."

Katherine wasn't smiling. She circled her arms around Arthur's waist, letting her face rest against his chest as she mulled things over. Being a second son was never easy, theirs was a life spent growing up in the shadow of others, constantly striving to find a way to make their own mark while trying not to outshine their betters. It was a fine line to tread and she sympathised with Henry.

"And maybe Fox was wrong to paint your brother as the villain before he's even done anything wrong?" she said. "So Henry took care of some business before you got here? It's not like he had a private army barring the city gates against us. I understand that Fox lived through the wars, but I think he might be letting that prejudice him against anyone who shares a drop of blood with you. Henry is not Duke of Clarence, he's certainly no Richard III."

Arthur's shoulders slumped, his head falling to Katherine's shoulder. For her part, she tried to tell herself it would only get easier once they were crowned and anointed. They were teething. It was only natural.

* * *

Henry's hand shook as he accepted the cup of wine and downed half the contents in one gulp. By the time he had down half the contents in one go, the Duke of Buckingham had sat down opposite him, regarding him curiously. Meanwhile, Henry took a moment to let the alcohol do work its magic and allow himself to appraise the Duke's private apartments. As a Peer of the Realm, he was entitled to his own quarters and they were wide, spacious and beautifully furnished. A hearth dominated the inner wall and the fire within was more than enough to light the whole drawing room. Books were lined neatly on shelves, perfuming the air with dust and leather. It was strangely soothing.

"How come my father gave you this place and I got a closet adjoining his privy chamber?" he asked, feeling rankled all over again. "Never mind, it's his funeral tomorrow and Arthur at least promised to find me something more suitable."

Ignoring Henry's observations, Buckingham got straight to the point. "What did you fight about?"

"You were right, your grace. He took it badly that I dealt with some matters of state. He acted like I was deliberately undermining him and I meant nothing of the sort. He laughed when I said I wanted the Council of North."

"When are you going to learn? No one will give you anything, Henry. Nothing has changed for you, your father may as well still be around for all Arthur will do for you. And don't look to the Queen, she's learned from the great Isabella how to exercise power to its full effect. From new chambers to power, you will get nothing you don't take for yourself by force."

Henry fell silent. Whatever retort he had was lost as he lapsed into darkening thoughts. "So, what are you saying? I am condemned to remain like this forever, just waiting on the off chance that Arthur dies? Or, better yet, that I must dispose of him before he finds a way dispose of me?"

Buckingham remained silent. Nothing needed to be said. The flames flickered in the hearth on a sudden draught, making the shadows flick across the wall. A tapestry depicting a hunting scene briefly came into view. The train of Henry's thoughts spiralled, the suggestion taking root and his vision of a golden future vanishing before it had had a chance to take root. In its place, he saw only a continuation of what had been before, trapped and constrained, invisible fetters biting his flesh with every move he made.

Eventually, Buckingham broke the silence. "If recent history teaches us anything, then you should make new friends. Useful friends."

"I have friends-"

"I said useful friends, your grace. After your father's funeral tomorrow, everything will be about your brother's coronation. Then will be the right time to start making these useful friends."

Henry was lost. "Why the coronation? Surely that's the worst time – they'll be fawning all over him."

"To his face, yes," Buckingham answered. "If you and I are to work together, you need to start learning fast. If you gather the nobility around you out of the blue, it will arouse suspicion. Do it during a state occasion, when they're all in one place anyway, and it won't warrant a second glance. So, as I said, the coronation is the perfect time to test these waters."

As far as Henry recalled, he hadn't agreed outright to work with the Duke on anything. But the path he found himself being led down enticed him. For so long he had been used by other people, his father and his grandmother and now his brother, he felt like he was taking the reins of his own life for the first time. It enthralled him, so he played along, while still seeking the safety of assurances. "Fair enough," he said. "But we are just talking, aren't we? This is all just hypothetical, while Arthur is still childless and I am next in line."

Buckingham smiled widely. "Of course. Listen, don't fret on it for now. Calm down and clear your head."

"Well, that's easier said than done."

"Perhaps I can help." Buckingham rose to his feet, gesturing to a spot somewhere behind Henry. "Have you met by daughter, Eleanor?"

Not entirely sure of what was going on, Henry turned in his seat as the girl entered the room properly. How long she had been standing there, he did not know. But he suspected she was the cause of the sudden draught a few moments ago. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, showing her to be unmarried. Her gown was pale blue and silver, the sleeves almost touching the ground. They did, she curtsied deeply to Henry.

"Your grace," she said. "It's an honour to finally meet you."

Henry got to his feet and rose her up again, taking her hand gently. "The honour is all mine, Lady Stafford."

Somewhere, he thought he could hear his father spinning in his newly opened grave. It only spurred him on as he offered Lady Eleanor the chair he had been sat in. Beside him, Buckingham clapped his hands. "Now the difficult introductions are done, it's time to deal the cards."

* * *


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